"I'm so c… cold"

His teeth chattered so hard that it made it difficult for the poor man to even speak.

What was left of him at all?

He sounded absolutely miserable. Weak. Broken even.

Sherlock Holmes was a broken man. And it tore at John's heartstrings to see him in such a state.

If only there was a quick way to fix Holmes' misery.

Though… there was one way… and Watson himself; the doctor; could not deny that even he had thought about it a few times.

Just to give him an interlude from this hellish state. And Sherlock only seemed to deteriorate on this road to recovery.

But perhaps that was a selfish thought.

Holmes needed to kick this devil of addiction off his back himself; he had even made John sign a contract to not get him any medication to alleviate his symptoms; unless his life was in immediate and absolute danger.

Holmes had something to prove; to himself most of all.

Sherlock had begged, almost clawing at John's knees to allow him to go full cold turkey: despite John's better knowledge as a healthcare professional.

John had agreed; adding to the terms that Sherlock was not to be left alone at any point of his recovery. Which accounted for their change in sleeping arrangement… or rather, had created a good excuse to make a sporadic thing permanent if only for a while.

John had sat himself firmly on the night shift; Molly Hooper would watch over him some days after work, when she could… and of course Mrs. Hudson would always keep an eye on him too. As per usual; though she still would remind them how she was the landlady and not the housekeeper or babysitter…

But John was in charge of the nights… and he had accounted for his eagerness by stating that he would not be getting much sleep at home either way with the new born screaming bloody murder when she woke up hungry; a situation he had guessed his wife Mary would be more suited to handle.

"Lie down" John instructed the shivering figure huddled at the end of the bed.

Sherlock's naked back was turned to him; pale and thin, so pale it was almost luminescent in the poorly lit bedroom.

John could count his ribs as well as he could read the scars; way too many for the average man his age.

This poor man had seen battles; and John had only joined him on a mere fraction of them. That much he knew.

A lot of the chapters of Holmes' life were still missing to him.

Oh Sherlock, what have the world done to you? John heard himself sigh inwardly.

"I can't even sit still" the man who was famously known as the world's greatest detective moaned. The effort he used to voice his annoyance was wasted; it was plain as day.

"You have to sleep sometime" John was propped up on his elbows; halfway under the covers. He was drowsily watching his best friend go through hell.

John needed the sleep too… These weeks had drained him.

"I don't even know what that means anymore" Sherlock's pale long jittery fingers entangled in his own damp dark curls; almost creating a yin-yang effect of white merging into black.

"Just try it, please?" John managed to say before an unwanted yawn took hold of his jaw.

"Gah!" the tall one groaned loudly. John found himself jumping surprised by the sudden outburst. "… fine" the pale face now turned towards him.

He was barely recognisable. A ghost of who he was not long ago.

Like a child Sherlock curled up on his side of the bed; his back turned to John, his breathing was fast and his limbs were helplessly restless.

In an effort to soothe him; and himself; John allowed his roughened fingertips glide over Sherlock's white back.

His fingers moved in circles registering every bump and unevenness; like a blind man reading braille.

Sherlock Holmes was far from perfect; but that was the point… and how he ended up in this situation… he was human. So very human. No matter how he tried to deny it.

Despite his chattering teeth and complaining of feeling cold; his skin was burning hot to the touch.

The pale man sighed loudly. His eyes were now open wide; most of all he wanted to run. Every signal in his body screamed at him to run and hide.

John surely knew where he stood on tenderness!?

At first he tensed at the intimate contact but gradually he accepted it. He could not deny that feeling John's touch relieved the itching and crawling of his skin; it helped drown it out for some strange reason.

Sherlock seemed so unaccustomed to the gentle touch; a thought that troubled the good doctor deeply.

Another deep sigh emanated from the broken one; his muscles finally gave in… slowly but surely. He relaxed.

John's continuous touch became an anchor; keeping him grounded…

John's fingers moved slower; achingly slow.

He was nodding off. As soothing as it was to Sherlock it was to him and far too soon for Sherlock's liking he fell asleep.

Sherlock didn't want to admit it… but he had actually ended up enjoying the feeling of those fingers. They worked.

He tried to close his own eyes; trying to let his breathing pattern mimic sleeping.

Maybe sleep would take away the constant snigger of his needs… mocking him.

Every time he filled his lungs and held his breath the silence only gave way for the voice at the back of his head.

He needed peace. Just for a second!

He needed to numb his ever overactive brain. Too many thoughts all at one; it was quite overwhelming. Oh if he could swap minds with someone simple for just one night.

Ah, there was a thought.

His own head was so full of fast thoughts going nowhere… useless thoughts… all eventually circling one uncomfortable subject… teasing him… calling his name… tempting…

Trying to tell him there was no point in trying to fight…

He ran his fingers over his arm, pressing his thumb hard into one of the track marks; one of the oldest ones. A sinister smile crept upon his plump lips; a smug smile he couldn't wipe off.

He licked his teeth hungrily.

He breathed through his nose and stealthy slipped out of the bed. He looked back at his sleeping companion on the bed; with the same hungry smile plastered on his face.

The fair-haired man looked so peaceful. When he wasn't having nightmares he could look so… angelic. Oh what an unnecessarily poetic description!

Oh to be inside John Watson's head. There was a neat thought.

It was the sound of broken glass that woke John. He sat up gasping for air; broken free of yet another dream about the war.
This time the dream had been kinder than other times… He hadn't gotten to the point where he screamed himself awake. Not yet.

John shook his head. He quickly scanned the room; slowly realizing he was not in Afghanistan anymore.

This was a bedroom.

Ah… yes… Sherlock's bedroom!

Sherlock!

The glass breaking!? John's heart rate raised again, thumping hard against his chest.

Horrific scenarios invaded his mind of what he was going to find.

Had someone broken in? Moriarty's clan?

Another glass shattered and a cupboard was slammed shut with force.

"GAH!" He heard a well known groan of frustration.

Sherlock…

John ran towards the sounds; it came from the kitchen. And a horrible sight did await him.

… Though… not horrific in the sense he might have thought.